Whiskey Bottles & Browning Autos
by Illyria13
Summary: AU S5 Sequel to "Tequila Glasses & Shotgun Blasts" They are finally free, but even freedom has its price. They both have their own collection of nightmares but the one fear they share is losing the other. J/T


Whiskey Bottles & Browning Autos

By Illyria13

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Summary: AU S5 Sequel to "Tequila Glasses & Shotgun Blasts" They are finally free, but even freedom has its price. They both have their share of nightmares but the one fear they share is losing the other. J/T

Warning: SLASH!!! This is your warning. WARNING!!!!!! In case you didn't get it the first time, this is SLASH! Again, however, not very graphic.

Spoilers: Vague hint of S3 and S5. Also spoilers for the first story "Tequila Glasses & Shotgun Blasts". It isn't necessary that you read that one first (though I do recommend it). What you do need to know is that Tony and Jack are in an established relationship together and that in the first story, they broke away from the US government to live their own lives.

//

He stared at the reflective surface of the bathroom mirror, itching to throw his knuckles into the pristine glass. But he restrains himself, if only because of the man sleeping in the other room; he doesn't want to wake him from a peaceful slumber, considering how little restful sleep either of them gets a night. It is why he is here, hiding in the small room and fighting the urge to shed his own blood, to feel something other than the numbing cold in his heart, instead of lying in bed with his lover.

He'd woken from his own sleep, gasping silently for air, somewhat amazed that he'd managed not to wake the person in bed next to him. He is also grateful, because right now he doesn't think he can take the gentle comfort the man would offer him. It is somehow fitting, he thinks, that he suffers, because after everything that has happened in his life, he knows that it is nothing more than he deserves. He'd slipped quietly out of the bed, pausing when the other shifted at the motion, and slowly made his way to the bathroom. Once safely ensconced in the somewhat chilly room, he'd flipped on the light, wondering how the hell it could be so bright, before being distracted by his image in the mirror.

It'd been difficult for him to recognize that the person staring back was actually himself.

His tan skin was pale and clammy, the hair on his forehead plastered to the skin with drying sweat. His eyes were wide and hollow, sunken into the skin; the haunted orbs seemed to whisper secrets to him, of blame and of guilt and of the ever-present ache that existed in his mind. He tears his gaze away from the mirror, disgusted and ashamed at what he sees and sits heavily on the side of the bathtub. He looks down at his hands and tries to control their shaking, utterly exhausted but too afraid to attempt sleep.

He didn't care if he sounded like a child, afraid of the dark and the thing that hid under the bed. There were monsters in his dreams, shades and creatures that had the power to destroy. They taunted him and threatened, whispered his secrets and twisted their meanings. They searched his mind and ripped it apart, laughing and screeching their fun. Because these demons knew his weakness. They found his worst fears and laid them at his feet and shrieked in genuine pleasure as he tore himself to pieces. And the worst part of it was that they all bore the faces of everyone he'd ever known.

It was times like this that far were too hard, when he'd wake up screaming only to realize that it wasn't out loud but in his head and he'd find himself wishing that his gun was in easy reach. Even though he'd promised both himself and his lover that he would stop looking for that comforting way out, it was these moments that made him curse his inability to break that promise. Because sometimes, those images and feelings reeling through his head were overwhelming and not even the memories of the man he'd begun to love were enough to win. No matter how much he didn't want to admit it, he knew that guilt and shame would always win out over love. And he hates it because he feels like he is betraying his lover but he doesn't know how to make it stop. Part of him doesn't want it to, which only makes his self-hate grow even more. And far too often he finds himself dangling over an edge of his own making, unable to ask for the help he doesn't think he deserves.

Letting out a harsh bark of laughter that echoes around the small room, he can't help but wonder how he became so fucking pathetic. He is afraid of his dreams, afraid of himself, and afraid of his own failings, and yet he doesn't do a thing about it. He'd never thought that he was afraid of death but rather, he is afraid of living, of loving and laughing and being genuinely happy. But most of all, and he feels a pang in his heart, he is afraid of _Jack_. He fears the man that he is beginning to love because Jack is the one thing that makes him happy. The blonde man can make him forget his fears, his pain and his guilt, and it is this ability that Jack has that Tony fears. If he gives up all those feelings and all those thoughts, _guilt_, then Tony has the chance of moving on. The chance of living his life. And being free from those burdens fucking _scares_ him beyond anything.

He looked down at the feeling of a sharp pain and was surprised to find bruised crescent-shaped cuts in his palms, so deep that slow pools of blood were running down his hands. He watched as the liquid dripped onto the floor, the small noise of it hitting tile seeming to echo in his ears and couldn't help but feel fascinated.

It isn't that he's never lost blood before; god knows, he's probably lost it by the gallons by now, but this is different. This blood is his, shed at his own hands, unconsciously and unknowingly. That is what calls to him; his own willingness to harm himself without even knowing he'd done it. It is both fascinating and dangerous. The red on white makes interesting patterns and he peers closer in an attempt to make out the designs.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Strange, he could've sworn that the world was upright just a moment ago. Now it was tilted and rather fuzzy around the edges. The colors were muted and everything was silent; the silver of the faucet against the white of the counter, the white of the tile against the pale blue of the walls, all of them were fading into each other. A kaleidoscope of color spinning in his sight, dizzying in its intensity, and he closed his eyes as everything shifted.

"Tony."

He frowned, a small furrow appearing between his eyes. He thought he could hear something, a noise that was softly humming on the edges of his hearing. It had a companion, something that seemed a lot like movement that was floating on the sides of his vision. He heard it again and this time, he recognized the noise to be a voice, yet for some reason, he couldn't comprehend the syllables of the words it was making.

"Tony."

This time, the voice is slightly louder; not harsh, but firmer and stronger in its underlying intensity. There is concern there, barely hidden under the deep tenor, and controlled anxiety. Vibrations echoed across his hearing, and he realized that the owner of the voice was stepping towards him. The footsteps are the slow, measured movements of someone attempting not to spook a frightened animal; of wanting to soothe but not alarm, to heal but not hurt. And even though he can sense the restraint and the genuine care in the voice, he can't bring himself to acknowledge it, let alone reply.

"Tony, can you hear me? Talk to me."

He tries to respond to the statement that is both a command and a plea but nothing comes out. He opens his mouth but the words are stuck and his throat feels closed and suddenly, it is getting harder to breathe. His head drops into his hands and he struggles to inhale as black dots dance and spin around him. His chest is hurting and his fingers are pulling at his hair in some desperate hope that the action will help him focus just long enough to get oxygen. But it isn't working and his arms are going numb and suddenly, the white of the room falls away to be replaced by a sight that makes terror well up inside of him. It is stifling hot, dark and grey, steel bars and iron cages filled with _animals_ men that like to hurt and destroy, to break and obliterate. If it was hard to breathe before it was even harder now, because he knows this place, _remembers_ this cell and feels his heart pounding faster as he thinks of what is coming next.

A voice speaking closer to him makes him tense, his frame shaking in rigid fear, but it is the soft touch of hand on shoulder that makes him act. He leaps to his feet and holds up his hands, hoping to ward off the other person near him before they can _touch_ hurt him. It is a desperate attempt that usually fails, but sometimes they won't bother if they can't get a reaction, a _fight_ from their prey, and he shrinks inside at that very fact because he knows from experience that it is true.

There is no contact, however, and normally he'd be both relieved and grateful. But there is nothing normal about this situation because half of him is lost in the confusion of his memories and the other part is yelling at him to snap the fuck out of it. The sounds in his head are tearing his mind in half and he desperately wants it all to stop; for one moment, he needs silence so he can think. He knows that something is wrong with the entire situation but he can't stop the buzzing in his head long enough to figure out what. The voice is still there, speaking urgently to him and Tony can tell that they are trying to help him.

His fist curls and he knows that the only thing to do right now is ground himself back in reality. So he spins and lashes out, aiming for something, _anything_, to make contact with and bring himself back. He has enough presence of mind to aim away from the voice knowing that he cannot hurt Jack- and he realizes now that it is his lover that was speaking to him- but what he can do is hurt himself.

A thud echoes around him and he feels the impact of flesh upon surface. His eyes are open and looking back at him, and he sees that the reflection is distorted like a spider web with wings. The cracks spiral outwards from around the point of impact, his fist appearing both tan and red amongst the clear of the mirror. The shards of glass fall to the ground like rain, bloody tears of pearls and garnets that do not shine, and some of the pieces split his skin. Angry red blood rises to the surface, the heat allowing his mind to calm somewhat, and now he can focus on his surroundings. They have returned to what they had been originally, white and blue and bright of the bathroom, with only one noticeable difference to his shaken psyche. A person is standing to his left, arms raised halfway in a desperate bid to both support and stop him. Anguish and fear, not for himself but for Tony, is written across his face, twisting the features into a look that makes his heart hurt. Everything hits him all at once and as the realization of what he's done overwhelms him, he yanks his fist out of the mirror, uncaring to the harm he is causing himself. In the process, his eyes lock with the person next to him and the look in their eyes makes his already strung out nerves reach their limit.

He crumbles to the ground, not even feeling his knees hit the floor hard, and covers his face with his hands as he begins to cry. Deep, heart wrenching cries of someone with everything to lose and no idea how to prevent the loss tumble from his throat, the agonizing sounds wrenching his chest. He can sense the shock of the man next to him because this act is even more out of character than him punching the mirror but he cannot stop the tears from coming. He is too exhausted, too overwhelmed to deal with reality at the moment because the past few- minutes? hours?- have completely broken his defenses. His shoulders are shaking and the silence roaring in his ears drowns out every possible sound; his eyes are clenched shut against the world and he begins chanting to himself a jumble of words and he isn't sure if they are spoken aloud or simply in his mind.

Tony doesn't feel Jack reach out to him and gather his shaking frame into his arms. He doesn't hear what his lover is whispering in his ear, the soft words attempting to calm the broken form he holds. He is not aware of Jack bringing him back to the bed and holding him close, nor does he hear the desperation in his lovers' voice as his sobs only increase in their ferocity. The only thing that Tony is aware of is the sensation of slowly falling, _Alice down the rabbit hole_, and the last thing he sees is darkness.

He wakes a day after losing his mind and can't recall when exactly it was that he fell asleep. But he didn't sleep, not really, because how does one sleep through all the screams and cries of the bleeding and the dead? It was a cacophony of noise, a racket that drummed through his head and his soul all night and he never even realized it had stopped. It must have, though, at some point, because it is gone the next time he blinks his eyes and he shivers because he has lost a huge amount of time and has no idea where it went.

He can't think about it at the moment though because he isn't sure he'd be able to pull himself out of it again. Instead, he focuses on the presence next to him, the heat of another body warming both his skin and his mind. His eyes are closed again and he can feel a hand running lightly over his skin and through his hair, barely touching, as if the owner wants to comfort Tony but doesn't want to disturb him. The motion is soothing and his mind begins to calm as he concentrates on the steady rhythm. He feels like he is drifting, but he allows the feeling to wash over him, hoping that if he doesn't think, then maybe the memories will come back to him.

Sometimes he really hates being right.

His eyes snap open as images flash through his mind like a badly broken reel of film and he can feel his body seize tight in distress. The bathroom, the mirror, the cracks of glass, the pools of blood on the porcelain floor all collide into one tangle of pictures and sounds, the sensations overwhelming him with their intensity. But he can't stop the tidal wave and is helpless against its determination to make him relive it all again. As suddenly as it started, it is over and he collapses against the cool sheets, feeling utterly drained.

But he remembers.

Every thought, every action, every wish and tiny desire that had existed in that small wreck of a room was returned to him, and he thinks that remembering is both better and worse. Now that he knows what happened, he can explain it, only he doesn't know how. He also knows that Jack will want answers and Tony is the only one who has them. But he doesn't, not really, because how do you tell your lover that the screams in your head became too much; that you'd hid in the bathroom in order to fight the urge to blow your brains out? Although he knows that Jack will never condemn him, it is not condemnation that he fears but disgust. They are free now and Tony can't seem to get over everything that they have been through long enough to truly appreciate it. Why is he ruining what should be better times for them?

Jack speaks, catching his attention and the soothing tone of voice and words both hurt him and make him feel better.

"It's okay, Tony. I understand."

And understanding is worse than not, because with it comes empathy. Jack knows what he's going through because he's been there before. But it only makes Tony feel even more ashamed.

Because Jack is holding it together and Tony is fucking falling apart.

But he is also aware that Jack is the stronger of the two and it is this strength that Tony clings to in the desperate hope that some of it will transfer to him. And he knows that Jack will forgive him for this night even though he really shouldn't. But it is his lover's nature, to accept the things that hurt him, and fight only against the ones that hurt Tony.

"Jack, I'm sorry." _I can't stop it._

"I know." _You promised me, Tony._

He can hear the silent plea, the barely held-back fear and concern in Jack's voice and knows everything his lover wants to say but won't. He knows that Jack wants to yell and scream for Tony to stop scaring him. He knows that he wants to hold him tight and never let go, in the hopes of stopping him and keeping him safe and _alive_. He knows that Jack wants to forbid him from being alone at any time, to ensure that Tony is given no opportunity to hurt himself.

And he also knows that Jack won't because he is too afraid of driving Tony further over the edge. Jack fears adding to his guilt because it is Tony's guilt that is tearing him apart.

Tony hates hurting Jack and knows it is exactly what he is doing. But he can't stop. In the day, his demons seem less real, his nightmares less hollow. At night, though, he walks in their shadows and screams into blood red skies and has too much trouble telling silence from quiet.

Maybe he doesn't want to stop. Maybe this is his way of punishing himself. The problem, however, is that he's also hurting Jack, and for Tony, that is unacceptable. So he pushes away his wants and swears to himself _this is going to stop. I won't do it again._

And as much as he wants to believe it won't, he knows with utter certainty that it will.

//

Three days later, he found himself back in the bathroom. Only this time, he had his gun.

He didn't know what made these waking moments lately different from all the others that happened before. For whatever reason, they were more difficult, only he couldn't seem to figure out why. He knew that he was worrying Jack but he couldn't help himself; couldn't stop himself from staring at his gun, half-afraid that it would bite him and half-wishing that it would. He laughed aloud, the sound a harsh and bitter blend that echoed off the walls. Maybe he was finally going crazy. Or maybe he was already there, and it is only now that he was realizing it.

He stared down at the deadly item in his hands, the tips of his fingers running slowly, almost lovingly, over the shiny metal. It was cool to his touch and the sharp engravings on the side contrasted beautifully with the smoothness of the rest of the weapon. He could practically feel the power silently coiled inside it, waiting for the moment when it would be allowed to strike, and it was this that made him utterly fascinated by it. Because it was the power of life and death that he held in his hands and it was something that he dealt to others through most of his life but had never been given the gift himself.

The entire scene is surreal and far too familiar, which only makes him hate it all the more. Tony found himself desperately wishing for a drink but it is yet another thing he'd promised Jack he wouldn't do.

So many vices. So many sins.

So many promises and just how many times does he have to come close to breaking them before Jack loses his trust? How long will it take for his word to no longer mean anything?

He ponders that thought for a few moments and then asks himself the one question he was afraid to answer: could he really go through with it? All these attempts, all these times he has come close to finishing it all, and yet, he hasn't. Is it because he doesn't want to die? Or is it that he wants it to be thought through, not just an act of desperation and impulse?

And he knows the answer, and he thinks that he might have known it all along, because he can't do it to Jack, he _cannot_ repay his lover with even more death.

An image of Jack walking into the bathroom to find Tony on the floor bleeding from a self-inflicted gunshot wound is enough to make him sick. And he does, before collapsing onto the cool floor that lately seemed really comforting. He tries to force the image out of his mind but it stays, and Tony knows that if it came true, if the image became reality, then he would do something that has never been done before.

Tony would break Jack Bauer.

Jack has been a lot of things. Desperate, angry, despairing, fucking _pissed off_; he has pretty much been it all and Tony has seen him in all of those ways.

He has seen Jack bleeding, he has seen him nearly dying and he has seen him on the edge with one foot out. But he has never seen him broken; the type of broken where a person is so shattered it is impossible to put them back together. The kind where they scream for death but never ask for it because somehow they feel that they don't have the right.

Tony knew deep down that he would be one thing that would break his lover in this way but he absolutely wants to refuse to acknowledge it.

It is strange to realize that you are someone else's entire world, and to know that if you are lost then they are as well.

He is Jack's weakness, his one fatal flaw and he knows damn well how fatal it would be. Their bond is forged like a sword in fire, the steel beaten and melded into the sharp blade. They are not quite perfect, not nearly as smooth, but their cracks and jagged edges only make them that much closer. They fit together like puzzle pieces of their own making and the picture in its completeness is known only to them.

And Tony cannot bring himself to allow that bond to be severed, especially at his own hands. It may be selfish and it may be greedy but he needs him just as much as Jack needs Tony, and the thought of being without makes him feel ill.

He lets go of the gun and watches it fall slowly, silently, through the air before clattering on the floor. He looks at it and clenches his fists, fighting the urge to pick it up, because the weapon is more than just that. It is his unfailing peace and desperate desires and his shattered fucking sanity all molded into shiny silver and hollow steel. It is his wish and his hope, his freedom and his choice; his passion, his reason and his chance.

But it is not his salvation. That position is already taken, and its owner is what holds him back.

Jack.

And it always comes back to the man. Tony will continue to deny himself what he sometimes _wants_ because he has what he always _needs_.

It is an epiphany that had been a long time coming.

He leaves the gun on his lovers' pillow. It is a silent acknowledgement of his guilt and he knows that Jack will understand what it means. He is not so caught up in his own swirling thoughts that he cannot recognize what openly displaying it will do to his lover but it is the only option he has. It is not fair to make Jack carry this entire relationship by himself but neither can Tony find his strength without him. While he may be unable to make the feelings go away, he will find a way to contain them and to control them, because Jack deserves nothing less. He doesn't know who saved whom, but it doesn't matter, because in the end they have saved each other.

//

Maybe they are monsters. Maybe they deserve to die for their crimes, to be punished for their sins. And maybe they will, someday. But for now, they are going to live the best that they can because they've earned it. And if some want to call them monsters or evil or devils in disguise, let them. So long as they stay out of their way, because if they don't, they'll find out exactly what monsters are.

//

The beeping of the machines was barely audible over the pounding of his heart in his ears. He could barely breathe as the enormity of the situation washed over him and if someone had asked him what had happened, he wouldn't be able to tell them. Hell, at this point he wasn't sure he could even utter his own fucking name.

The doctors weren't hopeful, but when are they ever? Useless creatures that stand there in their white coats blending with the white of the sheets and the white of the walls; everything about this place is too _white._ They take care of patients and they lie to the families while all the while, they reek of death and decay and deceit. He isn't sure if it is hospitals themselves or simply doctors that he hates the most. All he knows is that he utterly despises the whole damn situation.

Collapsing into a chair near the bed seems like a good idea, so he does, and tries to focus his scattered thoughts. He needed to figure out what had happened, the events that had brought them to the Devil's domain.

It was actually a rather simple chain of actions. Jack and Tony were on a vacation of sorts. They'd arrived in Los Angeles yesterday morning for the purpose of picking up some items they had been unable to find elsewhere. Both of them had been apprehensive about being in the same town as the agency they'd once worked for, but they really couldn't avoid coming. They'd needed the aforementioned items and both had agreed that the risk was worth it. He and Jack had been eating at a small café in the middle of town, enjoying a break from the hotel. They'd had a nice afternoon shopping at the local shops before stopping for lunch, planning on returning to their room for a good snuggle when the sound of gunfire had ripped through the air. Reacting quickly, they'd both dropped and rolled behind the tables, Tony pulling his own weapons and returning fire, but had been unable to get a hit on the black Crown Vic as it sped away down the street. He replaced his guns in their holsters before realizing that Jack wasn't standing next to him.

Tony dropped his head into his hands as he remembered the emotions that had rushed through him at the realization: fear, panic, and terror. He'd quickly turned and located his lover, but the sight that he'd come upon had frozen his heart. Jack had been lying about a foot from their table, his shirt stained crimson with blood and he'd known immediately that it was bad. Three bright circles against the material and though Tony had applied pressure to the wounds, the blood had continued to pour steadily through his fingers. He'd swung Jack into his arms and headed for their truck, not waiting for an ambulance when he'd known that he could get Jack to a hospital quicker. He wasn't going to stop for anything.

And here he was waiting next to the bed containing his lover. Jack had gone through about four hours of surgery and was still in critical condition. The doctors had said it was going to be touch and go, and Tony was afraid that this time, Jack wasn't going to be able to pull off his usual Superman act. Even Superman had a weakness. Even Superman could die.

Tony isn't too sure what he would do if-

The long whine of the machine breaks through his thoughts and he's on his feet and pushed out of the room before he even realizes what's happening. He hears orders being passed throughout the room, machines being charged and the unmistakable sound of a body being hit with 200 joules of electricity. He doesn't have to be in the room to sense the desperation or to know that it isn't working. He isn't sure how much time has passed but he does have the presence of mind to know that it has been a while. He stands there and waits and all he can hear now is that fucking steady drone that means the crashing of his world.

He turns around and doesn't look back because he can feel deep inside that the person inside the room is gone and soon the doctors are going to give up and he cannot watch them stop trying to save his lover. It's too much. It's all too fucking much.

And every thought that he might have been insane before this moment was completely fucking shattered, and he knew without knowing that _this_ was insanity.

Because Jack is dead. Dead, dead, dead as a door nail, as a doorknob. Dead as a rock, dead as a graveyard, _dead_. Dead body, dead heart, dead soul and dead mind. How many ways can you say the same thing, he thinks to himself, but he can't bring himself to stop. Roses are dead, not red, and violets are cool, not blue, and nothing is making any _sense_. Nothing ever does when it comes to death; you ring Death's doorbell and run away and it annoys him but why would you do it in the first place? And you can't bury the dead, can't bury things because sooner or later they will come right back up to get you.

Somehow he is back at their hotel room and he isn't sure how he'd made it back in one piece because, God knows, he sure wasn't paying attention to the road. Maybe he took a cab; no, the keys to their truck are in his hand. Only it isn't their truck anymore, is it, it's his now. There is no 'their', no 'they', none of that. It is only _him_, _he, himself_ and the room is suddenly too small. He bolts outside, door slamming behind him, and rests his head on the railing in front of him. He sucks in huge gulps of air because he needs to breath and slams an open palm down on the railing, the pain centering him. Gradually, his senses return and with them come his mind.

He lifts his head because now Tony has a purpose. For too long he has been wrapped up in his own pain and guilt, feeling sorry for himself and ignoring what he had right in front of him. But he's done with that. There will be no more guilt, no more dying piece by piece, day after day. He has nothing to lose because he has lost the only thing that mattered, the one thing that he had _sworn_ to God and the Devil and any power out there that he _would not _lose. He stares up at the sky and feels a clarity settle over him. It is strange but not unwelcome, like a bridal shroud that signifies the beginning of an end.

His lover is dead and the rage the thought invokes is beyond anything he'd ever felt before. But it is a detached, slowly cooling anger that will remain for a good while. He doesn't care how long it lasts as long as it keeps him going through his task. His lover is dead and somebody is going to pay. Preferably the ones who killed him. Though at this point, Tony will take whoever crosses his path.

_His lover is dead. _

At this, every tumultuous emotion, every swirling thought and best of all, the pain, stopped. He took a deep breath and let it out, his mind newly blank, and smiled at the complete control he held.

Is this how insanity feels? If so, it was fucking awesome.

Tony let out a chilling laugh, the sound so maniacal and psychotic that it breaches the barrier between the living realm and the dead, raising tiny bumps on partially decayed corpses. He looks into the sky with an all-seeing eye and makes a vow into the scalding wind; it is a vow of vengeance, of destruction and chaos, a promise to the Devil signed with his own blood. And with it comes a warning, breathed into being by an abandoned lover. _Make room for the dead_, he whispers_. Company is coming to stay._

//

They should have burned the whole fucking city to the ground. It wasn't like they hadn't had the chance before.

Tony knows that Jack would have never gone for it, though it isn't like they'd never discussed it. Too many unknown variables, too much attention. Not to mention, all the civilians. Sure he'd been fine with taking out a couple buildings in order to escape, but a whole city? That wasn't Jack. It was one of the qualities that Tony loved about him. For Jack, there was a difference between acceptable losses for their own safety and a complete rampage merely because they wanted to. That was what Tony was for.

Except this time, it wasn't simply want that was leading to this rampage. No, it was pure and utter revenge. Well, that and the fact that Tony was officially pissed.

He wasn't going to burn the city though. Nope. Just a single building. Nothing really special about it.

Except that it housed the super-secret agency that had destroyed both his and Jack's life. The one funded by the government and ordered to track them down, to bring Jack and Tony in or take them out.

He really shouldn't have been surprised at the agency's daring. What he hadn't counted on was their utter stupidity. They hadn't even tried to make the attack on the two men look like anything other than it was. They must have been desperate to hit them in broad daylight using a government issued vehicle and weaponry.

But they had succeeded and Tony clenched his fist in anger.

If the agency had thought that they'd paid before, then they had another thing coming.

Because they hadn't paid nearly enough and clearly, they hadn't learned their lesson.

But they would. And this time, he was going to make sure they paid: In pain and in blood.

Tony looked up at the imposing building, his frozen features betraying none of the rage that flowed through his veins. He stared at it and wondered if the occupants had any idea of what was coming, of what they had brought down upon themselves. He smiled, and the look was chilling in its emptiness, before pausing for a moment and then his lips move as he talks to himself. Only it is not words he's saying, but numbers, and the meaning behind them is known only to him. He stands like a statue and whispers into the wind and he looks as if he is waiting. To the casual observer he seems calm, but then the breeze changes and a shiver runs down their spine as they finally sense the danger his aura is screaming.

_5…_

It was pathetic how easily he'd gotten inside the building. You'd think a building owned by the government that housed the headquarters of a top-secret agency would have extremely advanced security, but apparently not. Maybe they felt secure in their anonymity. Maybe they thought that a gated parking area with four armed guards, an elevator leading into the building equipped with a palm/fingerprint sensor and two other armed guards waiting once the doors opened on every floor, were enough to prevent unwanted guests from breaching their sanctuary. He snorted to himself. It might've been enough to stop an amateur or an ordinary criminal, but not him. It'd taken a grand total of six minutes and twenty-three seconds to reach the seventh floor, and four minutes of that was the elevator ride. The guards were the easiest due to their lack of communication, and he'd taken one down and turned on the others before they could even reach for their radios. As for the elevator security, it'd been easy enough to drag the body of a guard over to the sensor and use their hand to gain access.

It really was pathetic.

He'd found himself on the familiar floor, having been here numerous times before, and quickly made his way to a room located towards the back. It should have surprised him at the lack of personnel that paid attention to him, let alone tried to stop him.

Oh, well. If they wanted to be lax about security, then it was their loss and his gain.

_4…_

Tampering with the ventilation system was less noticeable and made sabotage even harder to prove. It was more subtle than a bomb, took out more people than going in shooting, and took longer for them to find. By the time they realized something was wrong, it'd be too late.

He'd reworked the wiring of the system so that the carbon dioxide filtered from the building would instead be directed back into the rooms. It takes the average human 5-7 minutes to suffocate, and he'd created a timer to the system that would trigger it 10 minutes after he set it, leaving him with enough time to get outside the building before it started. To top it off, he'd rigged a combination of explosives at each corner of the foundation that would go off about seven minutes after the ventilation system was triggered.

Briefly he wondered if he was a pyromaniac. He seemed to enjoy watching things burn.

_3…_

Once upon a time, he feared death. Not anymore.

In death, things are joined together that were never given a chance to grow in life. Blood, life, and sorrow mix to form brown, barren and dusty and deserted. Dust to blood to dust to the earth we all return. It is the cycle of life and of death, of giving and of taking, and so the wheel continues to spin.

_2…_

There was another reason he'd picked this method of execution: they'd realize they were dying before they actually died.

And it is exactly what he wants. That awareness and realization that death is reaching for them, enfolding their lives, their souls, in its chilly embrace and freezing their insides with its' icy fingers. The slow and drawn out realization of someone who is looking into the abyss and something more frightening than they could imagine is looking straight back.

He wanted them to feel this type of death.

Just like the death he is dying inside.

How does the saying go? Whatever energy, be it good or bad, that you put forth into the world will be returned to you times three?

It fits their actions. They've killed him and now he's killing them.

What can he say? Karma's a bitch.

_1…_

The number hangs in the air between them and he nearly holds his breath in his anticipation. Everything calms and he can hear nothing but the slow crawl of the blood through his veins and the feel of the breeze along his skin. Time has been stopped like the broken hand on a clock; it may continue on but is no longer measured. The world is silent in its restlessness and deadly in expectation, as though it too knows that everything is about to change. And for a moment, everything and nothing exists. But peace never lasts.

With a deafening roar, the building implodes upon itself, sending smoke and dirt and rubble flying into the air. It remains standing, though for how much longer remains uncertain, but its foundations are no longer steady. Screams of nearby pedestrians fill the air, before their shock and then panic sends them scampering in numerous directions. Nobody comes from the building itself, and it seems to be deserted, eerily silent in the wake of the explosion.

He is waiting.

He stands like the statue he appears to be and waits. Waits for the emergency vehicles to come tearing around the corner, all lights and sirens and controlled urgency lined with desperation and panic. Waits for the sleek black cars, so familiar and so _hated_ to come rolling to a stop, and their occupants to crawl out of the insides like a line of ants when their hill is crushed. Waits as survivors are helped from the building, coughing and crying and flailing about like worms on a hook, confusion lighting their faces. He waits as the faces of the spectators change in expression, completely lost in the wake of this beautiful disaster. They are confused and frightened and inside, he revels in their suffocating emotions. Police and paramedics and firefighters pass him by, moving around him as if he is merely an object in their way.

In their haste, he is not noticed and he does nothing to draw attention to himself. He has no desire to interfere, certainly no wish to help, and pictures a blonde man standing next to him, cerulean blue eyes shining in his direction. He thinks that he hears the man laugh, a ringing sound that he has only heard a couple times before. Words float through the breeze to him _I love you _and he imagines for a moment that he is not alone. But as he turns his head slightly to look out of the corner of his eye, he sees that nobody is there.

He is still waiting.

His attention returns to the sight before him and he drinks it all in with no expression, no smile of triumph or satisfaction, no glare of hate and victory. Instead, he is silent and empty because his rage, his scorn, his _pain_ is for him and him alone. He will not show it out here in the open, will not yell it into the face of his creative destruction. Instead, he will howl it in the dead of the night; scream it to the starless sky and gleaming moon because he will receive no reply and it is that utter indifference that he needs. It is what he needs to feel.

He waits and he watches and he does nothing, standing powerful and tall like a king overlooking his kingdom.

He is waiting and he will continue to wait, because what he is waiting for will never be given back. He waits for a man that is already dead and he waits for the moment when he will join him. Because they are both dead and the other has simply gotten a head start. There is no doubt that they will soon be together; it is merely the facts of their relationship and he will not let anything interfere.

He stops waiting. There is no point. What he seeks will come to him soon enough.

He walks away and nobody sees him leave. There one minute and gone the next, he is a ghost that no one will remember.

It suits him because he is already dead.

And once the sorrow and despair of the living fades, the dead are always forgotten.

//

It's been 21 days, 17 hours, and 39 minutes.

Not that he's been counting.

But who is he kidding? He'd keep track of those numbers even if he didn't try, simply because they are his last link to Jack.

The past days and weeks have gone by in a haze and Tony honestly isn't even sure he knew what he'd been doing during that time, other than wait for death. Sure he hadn't been actively seeking it out, but he hadn't been discouraging it either.

He could definitely tell that he'd been drinking quite a bit considering the amount of bottles that littered the trashed room he was in. Tequila, gin, vodka and his all-time favorite, whiskey; the scents combined together and hung in the air, a heady mix of booze. The room itself is a mess, with peeling paint and broken air conditioner and its stained carpet. But it's a room and he really hadn't cared much.

A knock at the door rings through his pounding head and he groans as he hopes that it isn't the landlord asking for rent. He doesn't even know where his wallet is, let alone cash. The knocking turns to pounding and the racket is starting to make his head hurt worse, so he gets from the chair and moves to the door, preparing himself for an unpleasant confrontation. He stumbles on a bottle, cursing under his breath, and yanks the door open.

And promptly bursts into hysterical laughter.

It isn't the landlord at the door. Instead, it is a disheveled blonde man that is rather familiar in appearance and Tony wonders what he did to deserve this.

Sure he has hallucinated before but never since _he'd_ died, and he finds it somewhat hysterical, really, that now of all times is when he chooses to hallucinate a dead man. He steps back from the door and turns away, practically howling with laughter, and wonders to himself if the next time someone knocks at the door, it will finally be death. He is pretty sure that he is close and maybe this is just the sign he needed to know that it was coming.

The not-Jack is talking but Tony isn't listening because really, what does a hallucination have to say that he would be interested in hearing? If its blame, then he doesn't need to hear it considering he already blames himself. If it is love, well, he can't love something that isn't there and anything else the image has to say will simply hurt and he can't take that right now.

He feels a hand grab his arm and spin him around, and the motion causes his own limply hanging hand to smack into the hallucination's abdomen, who promptly curses with what seems like a mix of anger and pain. Tony tilted his head curiously to the left, surprised at how solid and _real_ the not-Jack had felt, but still isn't in enough frame of mind to really notice or care. His eyes glance down and he feels himself freeze as they notice something different about the hallucination, something that hadn't been there at first glance.

He is no longer listening or paying attention to the apparition. Instead, his eyes are caught on the small hint of red that is seeping through the white shirt the man wears.

But it didn't make sense because hallucinations don't bleed. Ghosts don't either.

That would mean…no. It's not possible. It can't be. He tells himself this even as all the other pieces fall together into a place that isn't quite where he's at but the implications are making his head spin and his heart pound.

The only other option was that Jack was alive. Breathing, walking, talking, laughing kind of alive that he didn't think was ever going to be true again.

He felt the brush of fingers meeting his cheek and he didn't dare breathe, afraid the hallucination would leave if he did. Because while he fears that the illusion will end like it always has before, he is even more terrified of it being real. He isn't sure if he could handle what it would mean, and the consequences of such a revelation. As much as he would kill to have Jack with him again -and he doesn't miss the irony that he did kill to no avail- he has fallen so far that he isn't sure that he can live again. He has welcomed death, accepted it, and simply been waiting for it to come.

But the graze of flesh against flesh, warm and solid and comforting intensity does what the mere appearance of the apparition couldn't. The single touch of one on one; from it, a million different moments have spun and yet it was able to offer the greatest comfort to the soul of the man it touched. And with comfort also comes agony, the bittersweet taste of denial and truth and awareness.

And everything came crashing down.

If someone had asked him before if he knew what pain was, he would have replied without hesitation, because he has felt all of it. Mental, physical, emotional, or psychological, it all means the same; a thousand names for such a damaging thing. Now, however, he had the sudden breakthrough that he had never known the feeling of pain.

Because while insanity had been freedom, being sane was utter hell.

But a part of him is relieved because he has spent too much time being numb and cold.

He wants to feel pain, to bleed and be cut in a thousand places because it is everything he'd been denying for the past 1277 hours and it really is sad that he knew that number off the top of his head. He wants to be warm and alive, wants to hold and be held, and simply wants his life to go back to before. He may have been unhappy before when his dreams became too much but having lived a waking nightmare for three weeks, he can honestly say that dreams are nothing compared to the pain of reality.

He looks at his lover, truly sees him for the first time in weeks and drinks in the sight with dazed and tired eyes. The haze of alcohol is gone, cleared away by the sight before him and he knows immediately what to do. Jack looks wrecked, worry and concern and some pain etched into lines on his face and Tony doesn't like that look anymore. It doesn't belong there.

He reached out and quickly, but carefully, yanked Jack to him, his lips crashing into the other man's. There is nothing gentle about this kiss; instead, it is frantic and messy and he doesn't care because he has missed this man. He'd forgotten his taste, his scent and the feel of his skin against his. To have him back is better than he can imagine, and if this is a dream or hallucination and he has finally gone crazy, well, he's going to take advantage of what feels like Dolby Surround Sound.

The pace of the kiss slows as they both pause to draw in breath, foreheads resting together because neither of them is willing to break contact. They have been apart too long, and both fear that the other is going to vanish into thin air. Their lips seek each other out again, and though they keep it soft, the intensity doesn't lessen. They are lovers reunited, two souls rejoined at the seams, pocket aces paired together to win the game.

They finally stop, both starting to feel winded even as their nerves scream at them not to quit. Their bodies will have to wait, though, because they have a lot of catching up to do and more important things to discuss.

He knows that they need to talk about a lot, but the past events and the roller coaster of emotions are catching up to him and he sways as his eyes nearly close on their own. Darkness is creeping on the side of his vision and he feels slightly dizzy and nauseous. He loses his balance and sags into Jack's arms, knowing that he will catch him and feeling somewhat upset at his inability to stay upright. But he can't mind, not really, because Jack is here and he wouldn't trade his presence for anything. Jack is alive and safe and now, Tony knows that it is alright to sleep. Because even if he dreams, Jack will be there to calm him when he wakes. And tomorrow they can figure out what to do.

Tomorrow will have to wait, though, because he wants to savor tonight.

//

The older of the two picked up the other and carried him to the bed, thinking back to another time he has done this and feeling his heart clench as he remembers. It was the night where they had finally taken control of their lives, the decision spurned by the actions of the day, where they'd faced down with a group of armed gunrunners. The man in his arms had been unconscious that time too, and it pains him to see how he has failed.

It seems that failure is the only thing he can give his lover and he can see what this latest one has done. Jack is the one who almost died and yet it is Tony that looks as if he had a meeting with the grim reaper. He lays him down amongst the pillows and the blankets, the paleness of the skin against the sheets frightening bright, and feels a sharp fissure of fear spike in his heart at the sight. Tony is too thin, too pale, too brittle and broken that Jack is afraid that he won't be able to save him. And it isn't only his physical health, but his mental state as well, that Jack fears for.

For now, his only priority is to bring his lover back to him. Once he is healthy, then they will deal with the consequences of his actions together. Jack doesn't blame him for what Tony has done and privately, he knew that he would have done far worse had he been the one in Tony's position. But he does know that blowing up a government building will have far reaching consequences.

It doesn't matter though. They are together again, broken that they are, two souls that only need each other, and they will face what is to come. Tomorrow they will deal with what Tony has done. Tonight, all that exists is two people whose fates are so inextricably entwined that to lose one is to deny the other.

A string of Latin ran through his head, and the meaning brought a smile to his lips.

_Quod Incepimus Conficiemus_.

What we have begun, we shall finish.

_Together_.

//

End.


End file.
